


the maidenvault

by ayuminb



Series: Jonsa Kink Week [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: (srsly this'll get progressively kinkier as i go - beware), (tho is not really a relationship - they're married but nothing happens), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Danerys comes to Westeros after the Great War, Ambiguous Sansa Stark, Background Relationships - Jon/Daenerys, Bondage, Dark Jon Snow, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Jonsa Kink Fest, Jonsa Kink Week, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Shameless Smut, Virgin Sansa Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-04
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2019-03-13 15:05:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13573104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ayuminb/pseuds/ayuminb
Summary: It's nothing she does; it's him. It's always him, his lack of control.(Or, in which Jon locks Sansa up in the Maidenvault to protect her. From himself.)





	the maidenvault

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kingsnow (bravegentlestrong)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravegentlestrong/gifts), [junsnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/gifts).



Silk ribbons, Jon ties her up with silk ribbons.

 

Sansa questions not where they came from, why they’re always grey and white in color. She’s not the mind to do so, not when he takes great care to tie each wrist, and then each ankle, to a different bedpost, leaving her spread atop the covers of her featherbed, as bare as the day she was born.

 

Jon doesn’t _touch_ her, he’s careful to let no contact come between them now, and that both thrills her and leaves her achingly frustrated. Other than that first time, when he had taken her for a ride; he’d touched her _then_ , mostly holdind her hips to keep her steady as they’d rutted atop his horse, but he had and she’d _liked_ it. Though it had been the only time, since then he’d not come close to her.

 

Except now – _now_ he’s close, even if he still refused to touch her. Now he kneels between her spread legs, bare-chested and with his breeches hanging low on his hips. At least he removes some of his clothing, now, at least Jon allows her to marvel at his well-toned body. Lets her memorize him to fuel her own fantasies. _Oh_ and he presents quite the picture now. Head tilted to the side, the grey of his eyes naught but a thin ring surrounding the pupil; there’s a lazy smirk pulling at his lips and a desperate hint to his expression, like he were starving. Jon toys with the ribbons, flicking them to test their resistance – pulled taut, so she may barely move her limbs.

 

“Sansa…”

 

Gods but his _voice_ – she trembles. She watches him, short of breath and quivering with longing, so very willing if only he would _just_. Jon simply smiles, slow and devastating, he crawls up her body, careful to let no contact come between them _always_. The ghost of a kiss over her lips and then he moves back – the sudden light touch up the inside of her thigh startles her, enough to make her pull against her restrains.

 

Jon smirks. “Tell me, sister, do you enjoy teasing me so? Is that why you do it?”

 

 _Yes_ , she wants to say, except not really. She doesn’t do it _solely_ for him, Sansa does it to quench her urges, mostly – because Jon refuses to give _in_ ; he wants her, as much as she wants him, yet still he refuses to touch her due to his blasted honor. _But he’s touching me now_. She moans, squirms to get more of what Jon’s giving her, though not with his hands, she realizes, just a _feather_.

 

“Sansa.” There’s a hint of command in his voice – he brushes the feather higher up her thigh, up, up, _up_ , but before it can reach her quivering cunt, Jon moves it to the side. “Tell me why you tease me so.”

 

“I don’t tease you,” she gasps, her muscles jump; the sting of the hit is barely felt, it is a _feather_ after all, but surprising all the same. “I don’t mean to.”

 

Jon hums, soothing the skin with gentle motions, it’s not even red but he worries still. The feather tickles at her bellybutton, but it only makes the heat rush faster through her body. his hungry gaze only making it _worse_. Gods, but she wishes she could rub her thighs together, relieve some of the tension, not all just _some_. Then he brushes her nipples, light and quick circles until they stand hard and aching; she moans, arching her back to get a firmer touch. _Please, please, Jon, touch me_.

 

“No?” He flicks the feather, slowly applying pressure over the rosy tips of her breasts as he goes. "You would lie to my face, Sansa?" Leaves her squirming and writhing and pulling at her restrains; Jon finally turns his attention to the place she wants it most, leans closer until his lips brush her ear. "You mean to tell me, all those nights I come by, you just happen to be laying on your front, legs spread wide as you fucked yourself with your dainty fingers?”

 

But the ghost of a touch over her folds is all she gets, tearing an undignified whine out of her mouth. The feather is soft as it swipes over her; she _gasps_ , pulling at the ribbons again, when he starts flicking her nub as fast as he can. Her toes curls but _it’s not enough_. Her brother— _Jon, Jon, Jon_ —gives her a lopsided smile, and she's so focused on that, on the flex of his muscles and the desire coursing through her, on the blasted feather _teasing_ her, that they swipe of a thumb over that little nub that never fails to bring her pleasure makes her hiss.

 

Her gaze snaps up, shocked, _wondering_ , but Jon stops any words that might've come.

 

"I'm not touching you," he says, a low rasp that has her blood thrumming; his hand, the one hand, moves up until it cups her breast. "I'm not touching you, Sansa."

 

 _You are_ , she wants to say, whimpers instead, _you are, you are_. He squeezes her flesh carefully, tweaking at her nipples until she’s moaning and whimpering incoherent renditions of his name. Until she’s pleading for _more_. His touch is cooler than expected, _rougher_ than she’s dreamed, and it's only when he lifts his hand to pay attention to her other breast she understands _why_. She remembers.

 

Skin-to-skin contact – a too hard pull at her rosy nipple makes her gasp sharply and then he's letting his hand trail south. As long as there's no _skin-to-skin_ contact, he can pretend. Oh but would if she could, break his unshakable honor; would if she could, give them what they both yearned deeply.

 

The leather of his glove feels wonderful against her sensitive skin, even better when he strokes her folds firmly, spreading the wetness gathered there. Again, _carefully_ , he moves to hover above her, not a place coming into contact except that of his gloved hand; he watches her intently as his hand keeps exploring her cunt, delving his fingers into her lightly before going back to stroking over it. All the time avoiding the place that craves his touch the most.

 

"Tell me why you behave so wickedly, dear sister, or I will stop."

 

Sansa whimpers and bucks her hips into his hand as much as she can. "I want you to touch me," she says, "really touch me. _Jon_." A finger goes in, then another, and he's fucking her in earnest, at a maddening pace. "I want to feel your hands all over my body, and I want to touch you as well."

 

He groans, the arms that keeps him hovering gives and he falls onto his elbow, still managing to keep the distance. But the _heat_ , now she feels the heat coming from him seep into her skin – she squirms some more, feeling the tension building, wanting to have his body on _her_ and she can't, can't, _can't_.

 

"What else?" He grunts, adds another finger as his thumb finally, _finally_ goes to rub against the nub; and there, right _there_ , her muscles coil tighter with every motion. "What else do you want, Sansa?"

 

She turns her head, meets his heated gaze, and whispers, "I want you to fuck me."

 

Sansa sees him tremble. His fingers curl inside her, his thumb moves faster and it's there, almost there, almost, almost, _almost_ – back arching, her limbs pull at the ribbons  harshly, tighter and tighter and _then_.

 

Jon groans, deep in his chest, _rumbling_ ; the tension snaps, and Sansa sinks into a sea of blinding pleasure.

 

******

 

The plump maester shifts uncomfortably as he stands before her, avoiding her gaze and casting quick glances at the closed doors of her solar – or, perhaps, at her guards.

 

It annoys her to no end, knowing he’d rather be anywhere else that _here_ , helping his Queen. _But he did not came here for you, he didn’t bend the knee for you_. It rankles, that thought, that sibilant voice whispering in the back of her mind – Samwell Tarly, as most of the nobles in Westeros, only kneel for the King.

 

Her husband, Jon Snow.

 

Who’d refused both her name—there was only disdain at the prospect of taking _her_ name, he’d grumbled about being no dragon—and the one he’d coveted his whole life. And this, for a different reason; there was no disdain, only pain and yearning, as he’d said he was no true Stark, said he’d not take away his siblings’ birthright. His _sister’s_.

 

_“Winterfell belongs to my sister Sansa.”_

 

“Tell me, Maester Samwell, where is my husband.”

 

It is not a question, not really, and the plump man in front of her knows it.

 

“The King is out, Your Grace, riding.”

 

“Where?”

 

Finally, his eyes raise to meet hers; unmistakable, the muted defiance. “The Kingswood, most likely.”

 

Daenerys could demand to know why she had not been informed, but the answer would be as it always is. There was no _need_ ; he’s the King. So long as he takes the Kingsguard with him, there’s nothing wrong with going out. She made him her equal, thus she’s no grounds to demand obedience from him.

 

She could say many things – settles for one.

 

“You are his best friend, Maester Samwell, are you not.”

 

Another non-question.

 

“I am, Your Grace.”

 

“Then, _certainly_ , you must know,” a tilt of the head is all she needs to project utmost innocent, while letting her sharp tone do the rest, “why the King fails to perform his husbandly duties.”

 

It rankles— _down to her very core_ —knowing she must resort to this to get an inkling of her husband’s motives to avoid her.

 

To _deny_ her.

 

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” it is his turn, it seems, to affect an innocent stance, “but King Jon has done his husbandly duties, right down to the letter, as per the contract you made him sign under threat of dragonfire.”

 

His matter-of-fact tone has her jumping to her feet; she’ll come to regret this slip of control later, now she’ll let it run its course. “You dare mock me?”

 

“Of course not, Your Grace,” he straightens up, looking braver than before. “As per the contract, King Jon has wedded you _and_ bedded you, and he needs not do it again. Furthermore, the _contract_ , which you and your Lord Hand drafted, has been sealed away in the Citadel, so none could tamper with it. As per _your_ request.”

 

A pause, and his gaze hardens.

 

“Also, as per _your_ instructions, the contract can only be made null if both Queen and King agree to it.”

 

“It is his duty to bed his Queen! It is—”

 

“— _not_. The purpose of beddings is to bring forth Heirs to the Realm. Forgive me, Your Grace, but you cannot bear any. You said so yourself. His Grace has no reason nor need to bed you anymore.”

 

It’s not that hard to understand – those words go unvoiced. But Daenerys feels them nonetheless, like daggers to her gut. And right there, the only reason she does not ask for this man’s head, for her guards to drag him to her dragons, it’s the knowledge that Jon would go berserk – as proved the one time she threatened his loved ones, before the contract and their union.

 

Also, it doesn’t help that most of the Realm, if not _all_ , would rather back the Usurper’s Dog’s _bastard_ than their rightful Queen. Truthfully, Daenerys thinks not even her dragons would stop a civil war were Jon to decide revolting.

 

And if the thought of his reticence makes her want him more, _well_ , she’s always liked a good challenge. Still, she’s treading water here – a first, for her, having a man that’s not tripping over himself to please her.

 

She does not like it.

 

“So tell me, Sam,” it feels off, trying to be amicable and familiar with her husband’s friend; but she’s _that_ desperate for him, “how do I change his mind?”

 

Maester Samwell goes to talk, probably rebuff her, she wouldn’t know. She certainly does not expect any kind of loyalty from him. But them to stops and actually looks contemplative - scratching his chubby chin as he looks lost in thought.

 

“There is something, that might help you along.”

 

*****

 

Later, after she’s sure Jon Snow resides in his quarters again, Daenerys summons him. Leaving no room for doubt that it is an order she expects him to follow.

 

His arrival is much the same as Maester Samwell’s, muted defiance, but he’s less tense about it. “Your Grace, what is it you need?”

 

 _I need you to fuck me_ , she thinks, but does not say. “I’ve decided to grant your wish, Jon,” she replies instead, not even asking him to call her by her name.

 

“My wish.”

 

She endeavors to keep a pleasant expression, but he so tries her patience. “I’ll give you leave to search for your siblings, Jon. Maester Samwell tells me you’ve a lead on one of them.”

 

He makes no effort to hide his shock. “In The Vale.”

 

Daenerys smiles sweetly and nods. “Yes, you may even take one of my dragons to make your journey faster.”

 

So he would come back faster.

 

That snaps him out of his shock, abruptly, and his icy mask falls once more over his face. “What will you want in exchange?”

 

Not exactly the reaction she expects, but given how he came to be her husband, she understands. “Nothing,” she says, manages to keep her tone steady, “I just want you to be happy.”

 

And finding his siblings will definitely make him happy. Enough, she hopes, that he’ll start thawing towards her – that he’ll stop resenting her for taking away his freedom. One step at a time; however much she loathes this glacial pace.

 

Jon says nothing, allows a frown to mar his face for only a second, before it evens out once again. “I thank you, Your Grace.”

 

Then he turns, and strides to the door.

 

“Wait—where are you going?”

 

The outburst is unexpected and regretted—she hates that she loses so easily her control nowadays—but the question stands. She’d assumed he’d stay and sup with her, as he’s not had any.

 

“To prepare for my journey.”

 

Daenerys frowns, stomps down her annoyance. “I’d hoped you would join me,” she says, making a sweeping motion towards the table piled up with food.

 

He blinks at her over his shoulder, castes a quick glance at the food, and then shakes his head. “I thank you again, Your Grace, but I’ll leave at dawn. Have a good night.”

 

And he’s gone.

 

She waits several minutes, lets them pass by her, before exploding with an outraged yell.

 

*****

 

She expects it to be a few days—not a fortnight—thus why she asks for no missives reporting his findings. Daenerys can’t exactly understand his motivation – his single-mindedness to find his siblings. Perhaps because the only sibling she’d known had been Viserys and he had been _awful_. Nonetheless, after a fortnight has passed, she begins to feel restless.

 

And angry.

 

Then the raven arrives, announcing his return along with that of his once lost sister. The missive had been sent hours before his own departure so, Daenerys has time to prepare. Receive him like a proper King deserves, be welcoming to his little sister, express joy at their reunion, offer her friendship, the companionship of another sister.

 

That’s when Rhaegal flies overhead, circles the Red Keep, looking for a wide enough place to land. Daenerys watches one of her children land, watches her husband maintain his stoic expression – watches him disentangle himself from his sister, who sits in front of him. All of this, with a bright smile on her face. Then Jon dismounts, turns his back on her to help his sister do the same. A cloaked sister, she notes, she wonders if this one bears the Stark look as her husband does. A head smaller than him, perhaps less, his sister stands taller than her.

 

 _It matters not_ , she thinks as they approach her, _now he’ll have to love me_.

 

“Your Grace,” says Jon, “my sister, Lady Sansa Stark.”

 

The hood is pulled back, allowing a mane of thick, red hair to fall over her shoulders and back. A striking color – not just red, she suddenly realizes, the closest she’s seen is the red of the Tullys from Riverrun. No, this is the red she’d seen in passing while flying over Winterfell— _a weirwood tree_ , she thinks, _that’s what it is called_.

 

Auburn.

 

The hair frames a young and lovely face, with piercing blue eyes; the thought that this girl is beautiful embeds itself into her mind.

 

Sansa Stark curtsies, a perfect dip, and gives her a lovely smile. "Your Grace."

 

Jon smiles at his sister, unrestrained and with so much affection; Daenerys knows with acute certainty, then, she already loathes this girl.

 

******

 

Jon walks through the glass garden, at leisure, with Sansa on his arm. Or, for honesty’s sake, it is she who walks through the gardens at her leisure, while he tags along, letting her choose their path and stopping often to admire what flowers still bloom. Though, most of those stops are only for her to look through the glass at the falling snow.

 

“It should arrive soon,” he says, tugging at her arm until she steps closer to him.

 

“What should?”

 

“The clothes I had ordered for you.”

 

Sansa arches an eyebrow. “Clothes? I thought you only requested a warmer cloak.”

 

“A whole wardrobe; plenty of gowns, fur-lined cloaks, the whole bunch,” he smiles at her, briefly, before he feels his expression harden. “All in Stark colors. Soon you’ll be rid of any reminder of that—loathsome rat.”

 

He refrains from using foul language for _her_ , from bringing up any more reminders of her time in The Vale. Well, her time in the company of Petyr Baelish, at the very least – he knows there are moments from her time there that were joyful, friends she had made. Which is why Jon doesn’t ask questions, lets her come to him with those stories she wants to share.

 

He had not said much, when he’d landed Rhaegal atop one of the lowest towers in The Eyrie, let the beast climb down into the largest looking courtyard. Jon had not said much, when the men he’d sent to investigate the rumors of his sister came to him to further explain why the urgency of his involvement was needed.

 

He’d said nothing at all when he’d gutted Petyr Baelish the moment he stepped close, with his smarmy smile and words of welcome. The silence blanketing the place long enough for Sansa to appear, to cry out his name and rush into his arms. For the people to notice her bright, red hair, and start connecting the dots.

 

A risky move – but once Satin’s missive had arrived announcing the imminent union of the Lord Protector of The Vale and Lady Sansa Stark, sole Heir to Winterfell. Well, there was never going to be a different outcome. Explanations can be given later.

 

And _Sansa_ —he’d promised to take her home, then, he’d meant to. But having her in his arms, suddenly Jon had felt in peace, again, like he wasn’t alone in this world anymore. He had promised, true, but had also given excuses as to why it must wait – repairs, he’d said, Winterfell needs repairs, but soon, _soon_. So he’d brought her back to King’s Landing, to the place that once was a prison, and kept making promises; it’s for her protection, he can protect her so long as she’s by his side.

 

His dear sister, she’d not complained. And Jon wonders if she can hear the half-lies as clearly as he does.

 

“Thank you,” Sansa’s voice brings his mind back to the moment; she gives him a lovely smile that sets his skin on fire. “You didn’t have to, so thank you, Jon.”

 

“It’s nothing, really,” the least he can do, for taking so long to find her, he wants to add, knows his meaning is heard nonetheless. “You’ll be able to stop wearing my old furcloak soon enough, never fret, my Lady.”

 

Her laugher rings out all around them, lovely and tempting and Jon must stomp down the urge to grab the back of her neck and _kiss her_ , swallow it all, see if it tastes as sweet as it sounds.

 

_Stop it._

 

“I don’t know if I will,” she says, pushing onto her toes to place a kiss to his cheek, “I like wearing your furcloak.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“It smells like you, makes me feel safe.” For a moment he swears, there’s a dust of pink in her cheeks that has nothing to do with the cold. “I feel like I walk around with your arms around me all the time.”

 

It’s only due to their linked arms that Jon doesn’t freeze up in the spot, that his legs move at all once Sansa begins walking again. It’s sheer stubbornness what makes him steel his mind against traitorous thoughts—of a blush traveling down a slender neck, of his lips following its path and counting freckles along the way, of his fingers digging into the soft curve of her hips and his shoulders urging her legs open wide, the taste of— _stop it stop it stop it_. Oh, but imagine, imagine, _imagine_.

 

“Jon.”

 

The carefully polite tone halts his inner torment, brings the scene before him to sharp focus.

 

“It seems you are being summoned, dear brother.”

 

He clenches his jaw for lack of a better response, stares defiantly at Tyrion, who looks mildly uncomfortable. “I’ll escort you back—”

 

She cuts him off with another kiss to his cheek, then steps back with a smile. “I know my way around here, I can manage.”

 

“But, Sansa—”

 

“And I’ll have Ghost to protect me,” she points at something over his shoulder, at Ghost, just arriving from a hunt, by the looks of it. “Go on, Jon, you’re not one to shirk your duties.”

 

Ghost brushes over his shoulder on his way to stand by Sansa’s side, he takes comfort in the sight they present.

 

“I’ll come find you later, then,” it’s almost a request.

 

She nods.

 

*****

 

It is not something he had expected – this _need_.

 

He’d expected the joy, the sense that now he must be the _protector_ , the fondness and even the evenings spent talking and getting to know each other once again. All of that, for the sister less close to him – scratching them off an imaginary list as they’d come.

 

He’d not expected the possessiveness, nor the way he craves her touch, her smiles—her _attention_. He’d not aticipated the need, primal, undeniable, to _claim_ _her_ – do all sort of unspeakable things to her. Jon can barely— _no_. Can’t even think of it.

 

_(Except when he does – he does think and it’s glorious. Come nightfall, after he’s returned to his chambers, he closes his eyes and sees Sansa so very clearly, splayed out underneath him, panting and writhing and moaning Jon, Jon, Jon. He closes his eyes and can feel her gasps against his neck, breathy pleas for more, more, more, can feel the tight grip of her cunt and—then he wakes, abruptly, with her name on his lips and his hand on his cock.)_

 

It’s only been a month, and there’s not a day that passes without his mind circling back to his dreams and his body reacting at the worst of times; bless winter, and the need for added layers of clothing, the need for cloaks. Because nothing helps; distance is _not_ an option, and every other distractions proves to be useless.

 

Jon fears Sansa’s reaction would be devastating – certainly, she’d be horrified. Disgusted. Her own _brother_. Yet, at the same time, he hopes. _Perhaps_.

 

Perhaps a part of him hopes, Sansa is so very _physical_ with him, crowding him, stepping into his personal space always. She’s always touching his arms, or hands, and even treading her fingers through his hair; whatever it is they do, there’s always a steady contact between them. So he hopes, _stupidly_ , but hopes and wonder.

 

Lets his need grow unchecked.

 

Sansa is talking to him, they break their fast together and she’s been telling him a story of her time in The Vale, about a friend – Mya, Myranda? He can’t remember, his mind focuses on the way her lips move, its shape and how soft they look; the curve of her jaw and neck; it is warm here, in her chambers, or perhaps it is him? He knows, of all the people of King’s Landing, he and Sansa, and his former brothers of the Watch – they’re the only ones to wear the less layer of clothing now. And it is a thought, harmless yet so very tempting, to order the household to keep her hearth always ablaze.

 

Warmer still, would she wear less layers _then_?

 

“Jon?”

 

“Mm?”

 

“You’re not listening to me.” Sansa pouts, reaches over to tug at his curls, and the urge to pull her into his lap and kiss her has him trembling. “Am I so boring?”

 

He chuckles, takes a breath before grabbing he hand, bringing it to his lips. “No, not boring. I find you to be one the funniest person in this accursed place.”

 

“But?”

 

“I was wondering if you’d like to go for a ride, to the Kingswood.”

 

Her head tilts to one side. “Don’t you have petitions to hear?”

 

“Queen Daenerys can do it.”

 

And maybe his tone is harsher than intended, but other than giving him a curious look, Sansa says nothing.

 

After they’re done eating, Jon leaves her to prepare for their outing, to prepare himself; makes a detour to Lord Lannister’s solar, to inform him of his decision – he does not look happy. But Jon has been good, has been attentive of his duties as King of the Seven Kingdoms. Has sat the Throne against his wishes and provided solutions to what he can, and given reassurance when he cannot help right away. He’s done his part, for nearly a year; they cannot deny him this.

 

 _They cannot deny me anything_ , a little voice says, low and rumbling in the back of his mind. The voice that tells him he must protect his pack, must protect his territory. The voice that tells him Tyrion Lannister was a friend, _once_ , but now he’s the enemy. That the Dragon Queen was _never_ a friend, always an enemy. _They want me to be King, I will be, but nothing else_.

 

Sansa meets him at the stables, Ghost padding at her side; smile bright and wide and all his. And maybe, _just maybe_ , the voice tells him this too – Sansa, sweet, gentle, and _his_.

 

*****

 

“Queen Daenerys doesn’t like me,” her voice is barely above a whisper, as it needs be while they’re surrounded by both his men and the Queen’s.

 

Jon stops the horse they share; Sansa sit astride in front of him, even with her heavy gowns; they’d chosen to ride like this to stave off the cold, at least that was the verbal statement.

 

He’s not sure, really.

 

“Leave us,” his words are primarily aimed to the Dragon Queen’s men, not his own, but Jon will rely on the former brothers of the Night’s Watch to keep what he’d hoped would be a private outing with his sister, well, _private_.

 

He urges their mount to move again, steers it in the direction of what he recalls is a small river, wonders if it’s not frozen over yet. When they’re sufficiently alone, only Ghost shadowing their steps, Jon speaks. “The Queen doesn’t like anyone.”

 

Sansa hums, presses closer into his front after a gust of icy air hits them unaware. “She likes you.”

 

He scoffs.

 

“Truly,” she looks at him over her shoulder, “I’ve seen her look at you. She desires you, brother.”

 

“She desires power,” he says, vaguely noting the way one of his arms wraps around her waist to pull her in closer on its own free will. “She desires to have me be like all those who’ve fallen at their knees for her.”

 

“Why haven’t you? She’s a beautiful woman.”

 

And a mad woman, he wants to say, there’s a great many things he could say, but won’t now. “Cersei was a beautiful woman, the Red Witch was a beautiful woman – doesn’t change the fact that they did terrible things. So has Daenerys.”

 

Sansa hums, seems to melt into him, body completely relaxed in a way he hasn’t seen; they enjoy the quiet, enjoy that the only sounds are Ghost’s movements around them, their horse and the wind. Far off, Jon thinks he can hear a stream, opens his mouth to tell her—but the words get caught in his throat.

 

“Oh, Jon, look!”

 

Sansa squirms excitedly, oblivious to the torment she heaps on him with her movements; she tugs off one of her gloves and extends her hand to catch the snowflakes on her fingers – he’s more focused on the ones landing on her hair, on the soft curve of her ass pressing tight into his groin. _Move away_ , a part of him, the part that clings to the shreds of his honor, whispers furiously in the back of his mind, _move away now_. His hand moves to her hip, gripping it firmly.

 

Jon stays.

 

The horse moves at a canter, makes them move in tandem, and if he lets his traitorous mind wander freely, he’d go to the darkest recesses of it where such movement is constantly repeated in his dreams, when he takes her while she sits on his lap, back pressed to his chest. He shakes his head, tries to focus on her excitement – she’d said, hadn’t she? How she yearned to see a snowfall with at least one family member? It wouldn’t do to taint such pure moment with his baseborn desires.

 

He shakes his head again.

 

But their hips rock, rock, _rock_ against each other, grinding even as he urges the horse to slow into a trot through the fields. Back and forth, back and forth, and Jon struggles to keep his wits about him and—stop it, stop it, stop it—her breath hitches. He freezes; for one horrifying second he thinks she’ll react badly at what he’s been doing, push him away, but – she takes the reigns from his hand, arches her back and lets her head fall on his shoulder, whispers his name.

 

“Don’t stop.”

 

A shiver runs down his spine and it takes every bit of control not to throw them off the horse and rut against her on the snow-covered ground. Every _single_ shred of it. Sansa moans, squirms in search of that friction; there’s not much room for movement _really_ , but Jon makes do, shifting them on the saddle until she’s actually sitting on his lap. A throwback to his dream, the very memory he’d not wanted to bring forth now materializes right in front of him; Sansa tries once again, grinding, chasing that friction, and he helps her along.

 

“Jon…”

 

 _Gods_ , but this girl—she’ll be the end of him.

 

The horse slows down to a walk; Jon uses the grip he has on her hips to rub against her ass just right for him, his cock is painfully hard and twitching inside his breeches and they rock, harder, _faster_ , and he’s right _there_. Sansa whimpers for more and _Jon, I need, I need, I need_ —he grabs one of her hands, brings it to her cunt, over the many layers of clothing, it’s enough friction to make this good now and after showing her what to do he lets go.

 

“Touch yourself for me, Sansa,” and watches over her shoulder.

 

And after she’s unraveled and he’s spilled into his breeches he thinks – later, he’ll make this _better_ , later he’ll give her greater pleasure.

 

Only, later comes the realization of what he’s done—to his sister.

 

*****

 

After they return to the Red Keep, Jon escorts her back to her chambers and makes a hasty retreat to his own. And hides, like a craven, the rest of the day and well into the next. But he just can’t face her.

 

Sansa, his sister, sweet and gentle and _good_ – and he’d rutted against her like a fucking animal.

 

_(Gods but the memories—her gasps and pleas and the perfect curve of her ass pressing on his hardened cock. Jon will carry that moment with him to the grave, he’s sure. Will fuel his dreams now that he knows, at least her sounds, as least the feel of her body against his own, the look on her face when she comes undone. Vivid dreams that will haunt his days.)_

 

It is because he can’t stop, because he feels the temptation too great to resist, that he makes his decision. Jon can barely meet her eyes, though Sansa looks back with the same softness she always shows him. Not judging, not even as he shows her to what would be her new chambers – until he can control himself.

 

She crosses the threshold, turning in a circle as she takes in the decor and takes notes of how her belongings are already there.

 

“It will only be for a short time…” He struggles to find the words – _because there are no words, you depraved bastard_.

 

Sansa turns to him then, _smiles_ , and lifts her hand to stroke along his jaw. “It’s alright, brother.”

 

And like a craven, he runs, the heavy doors of the Maidenvault closing firmly behind him.


End file.
